Raw
by sirrryesssirrr
Summary: Santana washes the paint off of her. Set during Superbowl episode. Brittany/Santana. femslash.


Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

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><p>Sometimes, Glee club got it right. A mash-up with full on costumes was something that pleased Santana entirely too much. But she didn't mind. It gave her an opportunity to do things and just be.<p>

They were in the bathroom cleaning themselves up of their make-up; transforming back to their original selves from people they barely recognized. Santana wasn't an idiot to think that it was some big epiphany or sign from God, but it surprised her enough that it still made her smudge her make-up to see the difference.

Santana had always been aware of Brittany's presence. This moment was no exception. She pretended not to notice how Brittany looked at her as she wiped the remnants of the white paint from her face. She couldn't help but feel Brittany's gaze fall back and forth between her eyes and lips. She didn't move a muscle in her face, just wiped the paint clean. It gave her a deep sense of satisfaction to see Brittany fight the twitch of her own lips.

"You're really beautiful even if you look like a zombie."

She knew exactly what those words meant. She knew how much it was going to reel her in once again. The first time she had to climb up from the hole she'd dug for herself was painful enough, she was cautious of doing so again.

She didn't take her eyes from the mirror; she only moved her hand to wipe clean the paint from right under her jaw. "Duh, I'm hot."

A safe answer was the default setting and Santana was good with them. It was the kind of control she knew Rachel Berry only wished came naturally. A quick glance from the corner of her eye told her that wasn't what Brittany expected. But she wasn't going to succumb to feeling things, not when she'd been able to make this much progress, a step forward from the five steps back she'd already taken. She kept wiping her face, clearing it of any trace of her undead appearance, challenging herself to maintain the apathetic demeanor she had established.

Santana watched Brittany turn back to face her own mirror. The smile she attempted at reflecting at how convincing she looked as a zombie not quite reaching her eyes.

There is a reason Santana likes being in that damn glee club. A lot of it doesn't have anything to do with how well she can sing and dance. Truthfully, it has more to do with a certain girl than anything else.

But now, more than ever, she knows her limitations. She knows what she can and can no longer do. There are boundaries with walls higher than she can climb; some are self-inflicted and others, she never had a choice.

So Santana wipes her face clean of any residual stains of heartbreak and becomes pristine again, untouchable. Her hips sway in rhythm with Quinn's; she belts out a note and fiercely hits it – like that note was played just for her; she looks at the two of them, but her eyes never focus, never stay – they'll get blurry otherwise.

Rachel Berry isn't the only talented performer in the glee club.

Santana would sit in her bathtub with the scalding water burning her skin anew. It would be another four o'clock that she'd witness; it would be the fourth night that week. She would be plagued with four, like it's the only thing she could count up to. She would find the square root of four and it would be two – just her and an absent party of one. She would rather believe it was rainbows than to know that even math failed her.

She would soak in the stream of water, her skin wrinkled, and she would think about how convincing she was the day before. She would remember having turned her face just a little to her left and looking at the girl beside her as Coach Sylvester berated them about the uselessness that is Glee. She would think about how the sadness stagnated on her skin, better than the make-up ever could, and how uncomfortably it settled there as Coach Sylvester gave them an ultimatum. She would not be able to shake the feeling and the image of Brittany, with her sad eyes and smudges of painted blood on her face, until the early hours of the next morning in the shower at four o'clock.

It would seep just under her and she'd try to rub it off as hard as she could, but the soreness of her raw skin would remind her that she was still very much in love with the girl.

Brittany would look at her skin that day and Santana would go back to performing someone she quite wasn't but would end up having to be – for now, for tomorrow, for as long as she could. A part of Santana would pray to the God that Quinn still believed in that her best friend wouldn't discover how her very skin would betray her, tell the stories she wasn't sure how to recite.

"San, your skin."

She would hear those words and she would conjure a convincing excuse. Brittany would not have a reason to doubt her, so she would take advantage of that.

"It's the paint."

It wouldn't be because of the paint and how washed clean she was, like redemption would if she owned up to her previous sins. It would be the etched touches of Brittany's hands that Santana wanted to pretend never existed. She would want to exorcise the ghosts of the lingering possibilities of "what if onlys" and simply blame the redness on the artificial blood leftover from the day before.

Sometimes, Glee club would get it right. A mash-up of costumes she could immerse herself in and it would please Santana not entirely enough. But she wouldn't mind. It would give her an opportunity to feel things and let her just be.


End file.
